


you must really like me

by tokyonightskies



Series: WidowReaper Week [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Assassination, Caretaking, F/M, Feelings, Feelings Realization, Missions, Music, One-Sided Attraction, Team, Team Bonding, Teambuilding, Trust, Undressing, Weapons, stealing clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 21:29:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10727634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tokyonightskies/pseuds/tokyonightskies
Summary: Sunlight cuts red along the contours of his body; Reaper’s stripped down to his undersuit, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted to the side, towards the row of windows lined above the king-sized bed. She slings her bodysuit over her shoulder, gathers her helmet and boots in her arms and nudges past him. When she’s put everything on the console table in front of the bed, she tugs the shirt she was sleeping in over her head.He moves to catch the shirt she throws at him, one-handedly, gives it a once-over, and asks, “Is this one of mine?”“Where’s my sniper rifle?” Widowmaker counters his question with one of her own, and unbothered with her current state of undress, settles down on the foot-end of the bed, reaching for her pouch with hair elastics.





	you must really like me

**Author's Note:**

> WidowReaper Week, day 2. Weapon of Choice
> 
> guns, venom mines, transmutation, seduction, intimidation, etc, etc.

.

Widowmaker stirs on the sofa, softly, and slowly blinks her eyes open; the room’s discolored in the glow of the dying sun, the reddish light cascading through the large windows behind her. She settles upright, kicking a couple of pillows off the couch, and hauls a hand through her long, loose hair.

“You’re up… _finally_ ,” Reaper says, coming into the sitting area of their hotel suite in full gear.

He walks over to the circular table and unceremoniously plops down in the armchair, starts removing his heavy boots when she shifts into a sitting position, sleepy-eyed still, and massages the spot between her brows. She stretches her arms over her head and rolls her neck, gazing absentmindedly at the bouquet of yellow flowers on the table. One of the open windows in the bedroom thuds shut loudly, probably from the wind.

“EPFCG’s are in position,” Reaper informs her as he takes off his right gauntlet. “Sombra’s working to overload the broadband network. Get ready.”

Widowmaker gets up, maneuvers past the low pouf that’s wedged between the coffee table and the television set, and goes to the walk-in closet. It’s empty aside from a couple of fluffy bathrobes and the disguises Talon selected for them when they checked in. She kneels and drags a blue, hard-cover suitcase from underneath the shoe shelf, enters the number combination, zips it open and takes out her bodysuit. Her helmet’s hidden in a polka-dotted hat case, her boots and the Widow’s Kiss in another trunk.

Her eyebrows furrow together when she finds _that_ trunk empty of her rifle. 

Widowmaker hears his padded footsteps on the floorboards – he’s probably in his socks – and turns towards the open doorway of the walk-in closet when he leans against the frame.

Sunlight cuts red along the contours of his body; Reaper’s stripped down to his undersuit, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted to the side, towards the row of windows lined above the king-sized bed. She slings her bodysuit over her shoulder, gathers her helmet and boots in her arms and nudges past him. When she’s put everything on the console table in front of the bed, she tugs the shirt she was sleeping in over her head.

He moves to catch the shirt she throws at him, one-handedly, gives it a once-over, and asks, “Is this one of mine?”

“Where’s my sniper rifle?” Widowmaker counters his question with one of her own, and unbothered with her current state of undress, settles down on the foot-end of the bed, reaching for her pouch with hair elastics.

“Pillows,” Reaper replies curtly before ducking into the walk-in closet, disappearing from her sight, as she does her hair in a high ponytail. She raises an eyebrow at the four pillows propped against the headboard – lumpy and so obviously _hiding_ something – and then stares off the side: at the two shelves that serve as a nightstand, the pink peonies in the glass vase, the nightlight, the white shutters that are folded open, the twilight sky outside offset by the brightly-lit Taipei 101.

She’s pulling the leggings of her bodysuit up her calves when Reaper returns, changed in a hoodie and a pair of sweatpants.

His face’s disintegrating, sallow skin flaking loose along the hinge of his jaw and cheekbones. He stands next to her and helps her put on her uniform; adjusts the dark-colored trim around her hips, zips up her boots and presses his thumbs flatly along the light blue lining of her deep décolletage to make sure the tape sticks to her skin. Her breath hitches lightly when his hands brush over the camber of her breasts, but he doesn’t notice and she’s not going to draw attention to it either.

“I cleaned your gun,” Reaper says gruffly, pushing his thumbs down softly on her collarbones. She remains stone-faced at the admission, trying to ignore his body heat from this close-by. “Attached a muzzle brake so we don’t get any room service.”

“I could’ve done that myself,” she responds matter-of-fact, moving away from him to put on her helmet.

He makes a beeline for the nightstand at the other side of the bed, explaining, “Recon wore you out worse than the flight. So, I figured there was no harm in letting you sleep a couple of hours more.” Picks up the remote for the stereo installation and studies the buttons. His eyes glint red, like the visors of her helmet – _man-made_ , _inorganic, machine-like_ – and he turns to the speaker in the upper right corner of the room, showing off exposed parts of his cranium, skin and shadow shrouding around his head.

“You must really like me,” Widowmaker quips, adjusting the helmet atop her head – the weight a comfort – and fastening the clasps over her cheekbones.

Reaper scoffs, but doesn’t offer any rebuttal, pointing the remote control at the speaker and pressing down on the ‘play’ button until the light flickers green. He skips through the selection on the holographic screen that’s projected in front of him, while she opens the window – noise from down below filling the silence of the room – and props herself on the broad stone sill behind the headboard.

Glancing through her scope, she has a clear shot at the platform, decorated with blue balloons and flowers. Talon made a good choice with this hotel suite.

Guitar music, underscored by simple handclaps, drowned out the white noise from outside. It was an old song, Widowmaker knew somehow from the arrangement and the vulnerable voice of the singer, but how old she couldn’t say for sure. She hadn’t expected Reaper to pick music this mellow to suppress the sound of her gunshot.

She doesn’t comment and buckles the straps of her gauntlet, but her expression must’ve given away her surprise somehow, because Reaper speaks up again, clarifies: “It’s the only American album on the list that isn’t complete shit.” _–  anything you want, you got it. anything you need, you got it. anything at all, you got it_ , the singer croons on the track, echoed by backing vocals, _baby.._. _–_

“I didn’t ask, mon chèr,” Widowmaker responds with a switchblade smile, shifting so she sits cross-legged in front of the open window.

Reaper grunts, puts the remote control back and grabs the bottle of water from the nightstand. He settles down against the headboard and reaches for the tail-end of her ponytail, rubs a few split-ends between his fingertips. She knows he’s thinking of giving her a haircut soon. It’s getting cooler in the room and the white shutters rattle from the draft. She tilts her head to the right, propping the stock of the Widow’s Kiss against her shoulder and getting into position to snipe.

“Ceremony starts in five, main target gets on stage somewhere in the next fifteen to twenty minutes…” He pauses to take a big gulp of water and _ah_ ’s. “Power goes out. Communication’s dead. You take the shot.”

“Very well,” Widowmaker acknowledges, waiting to activate the visors in her helmet until the right time.

“Sombra will be waiting in the bus stop at the entrance of the hotel for you,” he mutters gruffly, takes another sip of water. “You’ll head off to the second target together while I take care of things here. Pack. Check-out… Anything you want to keep?” There’s a snide edge to his voice when he asks her.

“I liked the hat case.” Her statement is punctuated by a wry chuckle. They both know Talon doesn’t allow her any personal possessions, aside from her equipment, aside from her _gun_.

Widowmaker doesn’t know what importance this information has for him, because it isn’t the first time he’s sneaked in a question like this. She caught him mending tears in one of her bodysuits after a mission before too and blew it off as one of his many idiosyncrasies, something to keep his ever-shifting hands busy. Her finger reflexively caresses the trigger of her sniper rifle, cleaned thoroughly, and it dawns on her that she hasn’t even checked her ammunition yet.

_She trusts him_ , the realization hits her hard, _with her equipment, with her rifle, with her weapon of a body._

Suddenly her words – _you must really like me_ – didn’t sound so funny anymore.

.


End file.
